The Spanish Billionaire's Mistress. Susan Stephens
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No, he didn’t, Zoë thought, shading her eyes with her hand as she tried to focus on his face. Her head felt so heavy. It bounced instead of simply moving. Squeezing her eyes together, she struggled to follow his movements—he seemed to be swaying back and forth. ‘So, who are you, then?’ Her tongue was tied up in knots.
‘Rico. Rico Cortes.’
They were attracting attention, Zoë noticed again. Peering round him, she gave a smile and a little wave. He moved in closer, shielding her from his companions. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Rico.’ As she put her hand out to shake his, it somehow connected with a coffee cup. Raising the cup to her lips, she drank the coffee down fast. The hot, bitter liquid scalded her throat, but it couldn’t be helped. She had to pull round from this fast. The last couple of programmes based around flamenco were supposed to be the crowning feature of her series.
‘Here, drink some more.’
His voice was sharp, and then he made a signal to the boy with the coffee pot to fill her mug again.
‘Leave it here, José, por favor.’
He sounded different, warmer when he spoke to the youth, Zoë registered fuzzily.
‘We’re going to need every drop,’ he added.
And he was back to contempt when he turned to look at her! It wasn’t the best start she’d ever had to a programme.
This time, once she’d drained the strong black coffee, it was Zoë who asked for more. The second she had finished, the questions started.
‘If you’re with a television crew I take it you’re after an exclusive. I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you were spying on us, sneaking about.’
Thanking the boy, Zoë gave him back her empty cup. Her head was clearing. She felt better, much more focused. She might still be a little under par, but she had no intention of being bullied by Rico Cortes—by anyone.
‘I’m here to see if flamenco will make a suitable item for my television series. Nothing more.’
‘Your television series?’
‘It’s my programme. I have full editorial control. I own the company that produces the programme.’
‘So, it’s you.’
‘Me?’
‘Staying at the Castillo Cazulas.’
‘Yes, my company has taken a short-term lease on the castle—’
‘And it’s there you’re going to create your masterpiece?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She couldn’t keep the chill out of her voice now. Could he have been more disparaging? She had worked long and hard to raise her programme above the rest, to make it different and special. She had brought a great team together, and she was proud of what they had achieved.
‘Flamenco for Spain, opera in Italy, fashion when you shoot a programme in France—is that how it goes? Skimming over the surface of a country, using the name of art just to make money?’
‘I make money. I won’t deny it. How would I stay in business, pay the wages of the people who work with me, otherwise? But as for your other assumptions—frankly, they stink.’
‘They do?’
His voice was faintly amused now, and he was looking at her in a whole different way. She wasn’t sure if she liked it any better. Her thundering heart told her it was dangerous. ‘Look, Rico, if you’re not the person I should be speaking to about the dancing, then perhaps you could find me someone who will listen to what I have to say.’
‘And allow you to trample over my privacy? I don’t think so.’
‘Your privacy? I wasn’t aware that my programme was going to be made around you.’
His look was cynical. ‘It’s time you went back to your film crew, Ms Chapman.’
‘Are you asking me to leave?’
‘It’s getting dark—I’d hate for you to lose your way.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll go. Just as soon as I finish my business here.’
‘You have finished your business here.’
‘Why are you so touchy about my being here? I’m not doing you any harm!’
‘People have a right to space.’
‘And this is yours?’ Zoë gestured around.
‘If you like. I don’t have to explain myself to you.’
‘Correct,’ Zoë said, standing up to face him. ‘But I wasn’t aware that there were any private estates up here in the mountains. I’ve got as much right to be here as you have. And, for your information, I have never had a single complaint from a guest on my show. I treat everyone with respect.’
He shifted position and smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was a ‘don’t mess with me’ smile.
‘I give you my word,’ Zoë insisted. ‘Nothing in my programme will invade your privacy—’
His short bark of laughter ran right through her, and his derision made her cheeks flame red.
‘You really believe that?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Then you’re dreaming.’
‘Perhaps if you’d allow me to explain how everything works—’
‘You still couldn’t come up with anything to reassure me.’
This was her most challenging project yet. But she had never failed before. Not once. No one had ever refused to take part in one of her programmes, and she wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes start a trend.
‘Have the effects of that drink worn off yet?’
He couldn’t wait to get rid of her, Zoë guessed. ‘Yes, they have.’ Hard luck. She was firing on all cylinders now.
He turned away. Evidently as far as Rico was concerned their discussion had come to an end. He couldn’t have cared less about her programme—he just didn’t want her blood on his hands when she tumbled over a cliff after drinking the local hooch at his precious flamenco camp. ‘We haven’t finished talking yet!’ she shouted after him.
‘I have.’
As he turned to stare at her Zoë wondered if he could sense the heat building up in her. His slow smile answered that question, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not when he walked back towards her. ‘Please, let me reassure you. I don’t pose a threat to you or to anyone else here. I’m just trying to—’
‘Find out more about flamenco?’
‘That’s right.’
As their eyes met and locked Zoë shivered inwardly. Rico was exactly the type of man she had vowed to avoid. ‘It’s getting late.’ She looked hopefully at the sky. ‘Perhaps you are right. This isn’t the time—’
‘Don’t let me drive you away,’ he sneered.
She was painfully aware of his physical strength, but then something distracted her. A broken chord was played with great skill on a guitar, so soft it was barely discernible above the laughter and chatter—but this was what she had come for. Silence fell, and everyone turned towards a small wooden stage. Lit by torchlight, it had been erected on the edge of the cliff, where it could catch the slightest breeze from the valley.
‘Since you’re here, I suppose you might as well stay for the performance.’
Rico’s invitation held little grace, but she wasn’t about to turn it down.
He cut a path through the